Believe by Sarah Aronson

Author:Sarah Aronson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Lerner Publishing Group

TWENTY-THREE

When I woke up the next morning, Lo sat on the edge of my bed. She held the hamsa in her open palm. “I would really like you to put it back on.”

I jumped out of bed and tripped over Current Medical Diagnosis. “Did I oversleep? Is there a crowd outside?” I stood at the window seat and made sure no one was outside waiting for me.

My room was bright. Lo had removed the shade screen from the skylight. I smelled coffee. Next to my sewing machine sat my favorite mug.

“No. Not yet.” She paused. “I just wanted to … I don’t know … I wanted to offer a truce. And talk.”

When I told her that I didn’t want to talk about the Book or wear the hamsa or forgive my dead mother, she lightened her voice. “Well, we at least need to discuss our schedule for next week.” When I didn’t look excited, she said, “Your college tour. Am I missing something?”

(Last night, she and Sharon probably took bets about whether I’d made appointments with schools. They probably determined that a week of tours and brochures and shopping would be the antidote to all this attention.)

“I don’t want to go until I have a portfolio in hand.” When Lo looked confused, I told her the bad news. “Ms. Browning wants me to go back to the drawing board.” I got back into bed and faced the wall. “She says my work looks inauthentic.”

Lo tried to hug me. “Did she really say inauthentic? I think your work is great. Maybe she’s not as smart as you think she is.” She got up from the bed and picked up the half-finished dress. “This is gorgeous. I say let’s throw caution to the wind and see if we can’t crash their open houses.”

Ms. Browning was opinionated for a reason. She was not the enemy. Dave was. My mother was. Lo didn’t know that FIT and Parsons don’t make last-minute appointments.

Looking at the dress, I got it. Nothing I made was original. Even this dress—I was pretty sure I could find a Vogue pattern for something just like it in five minutes. It didn’t look anything like me. Anyone could have made it. “She thinks I should plan to wait until this summer. Or fall.” I looked away. “And I agree.” This dress was supposed to be a tribute, but now that was the last thing I wanted to make. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m not going to finish it.”

Lo picked some lint off her skirt—a too-long, overpleated number that I’d begged her to donate to Goodwill at least a hundred times. She walked across the room, folded two shirts, and lined up the three bottles of perfume. Then she shook out the dress-in-progress and laid it across the bottom of my bed. “Just tell me you’re not giving up because you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Or trying to hurt me. Because that won’t get you anywhere. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

“It’s just a dress.

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